


The Truth is Beautiful

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 17:09:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10926282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Drabble request by anonymous – “So I know you wrote one a lot like this, but im really insecure and usually dont accept compliments of people telling me im beautiful, and so in the imagine where Cas tells the reader they’re beautiful, could you do one where the reader kinda insists he’s wrong?” Descriptions of reader insecurity regarding their looks and Cas being the fluffiest damn angel in the garrison.





	The Truth is Beautiful

You sensed Castiel’s eyes on you for the umpteenth time that evening. Glancing up from the faded dusty dog-eared tome perched on your lap to peer across the table, you managed to catch his sapphire gaze before he could furtively look away. The angel’s habit of staring wasn’t anything new; in fact, you considered it an integral component of his personality. But you already felt especially self-conscious that day and Cas’ innocent ogling was getting under your skin. “What the hell are you staring at?” you snapped – the words came out harsher than intended and you cringed internally.

“I apologize,” his throat stiffly bobbed as he swallowed hard, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, well bang up job!” you huffed, unable to stifle the frustration you were feeling with yourself and redirecting it squarely at the well-meaning angel.

Cas’ regard dropped to his lap, his brow knotted and jaw tensed in an agonized expression.

A pang of guilt seized your chest, cheeks flushing mottled pink as you sought refuge in the yellowed book before you – it wasn’t his fault you woke up feeling more insecure than usual, fretting about your mousey looks, the frumpy fit of your clothes, the amount of makeup you needed to apply that day to show your face in public – questioning literally everything about yourself and in the end finding nothing positive. The only reason you even ventured out of the sanctity of your bedroom was to help the Winchesters research this damned case.

“Y/N?” Cas was looking at you again, aspect lined with a mix of apology and concern.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” you murmured, guilt softening your prickly demeanor. “I’m just in a bad mood. You know, this case is just-,” you waved at the chaotic jumble of books on the table shared between you as if that was explanation enough.

Leaning forward to rest his elbows on the gleaming wood surface, he wrung his hands several times over, studying the interlocking action of his fingers, finally daring to speak, “Y/N, you’re too hard on yourself.”

“What are you talking about?” you gaped.

He scrutinized you silently for several long seconds, blue eyes stirring wetly with a glint of sorrow. Reclining back in the chair with a resigned shake of his head, he broke his intent focus, finding the courage to speak somewhere in the middle of the bookcase over your left shoulder, “It’s just, you’re more beautiful than you give yourself credit for.”

You blinked once, then again, refusing to believe the sincerity of his words, insisting, “I’m really not.”

Gaze returning to you, his blue eyes narrowed askance, “Why would you think that?”

You bristled, defensiveness re-emerging at the audacity of his inquiry. “Well if you’re invading my thoughts already, do you really need to ask?” you spat in answer.

“I-I didn’t read your thoughts,” he stuttered, shrinking into his trench coat, “it’s just, I see the way you look at yourself, the way you act so distant sometimes, like you’re trying to withdraw from your very existence.”

You sprang upright, trembling, tossing the ancient text carelessly at the table, eyes lividly gleaming red as tears threatened to spring forth unbidden at their corners. You knew you should have listened to your instincts and stayed in your room that day. The angel had a knack for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong and this was no exception.

“Y/N, please,” he rose, arm outstretched, imploring you not to flee as he rounded the table, “hear me out.”

You slouched in place at his request, eyes boring into the floor between your feet, fists clenched so tight your nails dug painfully into your palms, breath coming in ragged pants as you tried to contain your brimming emotion.

“Close your eyes and picture the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen,” he approached slowly, reaching out to gently grasp you by the wrists, drawing your hands together to clasp them warmly between his, “What do you see?”

A particularly stunning sunset you’d witnessed many years ago formed in your mind’s eye, “I see a-”

“It doesn’t matter,” his calm gravelly voice interrupted, “whatever you see, my father created it, perfect as it is, just as he created you. No matter what you think, whatever misconceptions you harbor, you should understand you are equally as perfect. You may not recognize and appreciate your beauty, but those around you do.” He paused, “I do.”

You angled your chin up to meet his sparkling eyes, taken aback by the candor contained therein. Although you still didn’t share his belief that you were beautiful, and might never believe it no matter how many times you would hear the words reiterated by him in the days and years to come, you could not deny the truth of _his_ unyielding belief in your inherent beauty.


End file.
